Foolish Things
by RosieAnnieUSA
Summary: Harry Briscoe does something foolish. Written for a challenge.


"The usual, Mr. Briscoe?"

Harry Briscoe nodded. Ashes fell from his ever-present cigar onto the bar. "As always, Joe. There's a good man."

The bartender paused mid-pour. "It's Jack, Mr. Briscoe. Jack Josephs."

Harry nodded again. "Of course it is. Just checking."

Jack put a glass of lager onto the bar. "That'll be ten cents, Mr. Briscoe."

Harry reached into his pocket and took out some coins. "Keep the change, Joe."

Taking an appreciative swallow, Harry leaned back against the bar and surveyed the room. Seemed like a nice, quiet crowd tonight. It was still a little early for the

real action, but then, he was only there to meet that reporter from Chicago. He wondered, again, why the man had been so determined to track him down, when

there was a whole division of agents in Denver. Oh sure, it'd be nice to believe that his good reputation had reached a thousand miles east to Chicago. Nice, but

unlikely. There were an awful lot of smart agents out there, and most of them were better at brown-nosing their way to the top of the heap than he was.

Harry glanced at his pocket watch. Only a few minutes past six. Not terribly late yet, but tardiness was a sign of sloppy thinking, and Harry hated sloppiness.

He took another long drink. The beer tasted good, but it wasn't sitting right in his stomach. He glanced at his reflection in the long mirror that hung above the bar.

A detective's life seemed to show up in his looks. Twenty years with the Bannerman Agency, and all he had to show for it was deep lines on his forehead, and gray

streaking his hair and mustache. That, and an agent's salary. Well, he'd always said that being a Bannerman man was its own reward. Kind of funny to realize just

how right he was, when he was 40 years old.

Someone was saying his name. He'd been so lost in those dark thoughts that he'd stop paying attention to his surroundings. In his line of work, that was a good

way to get killed.

"Sorry I'm late, Mr. Briscoe. I hope you haven't been waiting long."

"No no," said Harry. "I only got here myself a few minutes ago." He shook hands with the man, but absolutely could not remember his name. He'd always been

bad with names. His confusion must have shown, because the reporter introduced himself.

"It's Morehouse, Mr. Briscoe, Michael Morehouse. Of the Chicago American. I've been looking forward to meeting you. Shall we find a quiet place to talk?"

Harry let himself be escorted to a corner table. Morehouse ordered beers and food while Harry tried to figure him out as they made small talk about the weather,

Denver's growth, and other boring tomfoolery. His stomach gurgled loudly. Morehouse made a gentle joke, but Harry didn't laugh. He relied on his gut instincts,

and his gut was telling him to be careful. He glanced over at Morehouse, who only smiled blandly again. Harry thought of something his father had said: "Never

trust a man who smiles too much."

Smiling still, Morehouse said, "You're probably wondering why I wanted to meet you, Mr. Briscoe." Since that was a statement, and not a question, Harry didn't

feel inclined to answer.

"The people I work for are very interested in you."

"The people you work for . . . that would be your editors?" Harry said.

Morehouse laughed. "Yes. My editors. Who else did you think?" Harry just shrugged. He had no answer for that, either.

"Well, there are one or two other. People at Midwestern Railroad and the Union Pacific, for example."

Harry stubbed out his smoldering cigar in an ashtray. "Those are George Bannerman's personal clients."

"Yes. But you've worked with them too, on various investigations, such as the Brimstone job."

"Right," Harry said. "Brimstone. A good result, but not the precise result Midwestern and the U.P. wanted."

"Well-said, Mr. Briscoe. Yes, your team prevented a robbery and caught the gang red-handed, but it wasn't the gang the railroads wanted. Heyes and Curry are

still out there, a threat to every decent man and woman in the west."

Harry sat up straight. "Those two haven't robbed anybody for a couple of years. They're hardly a threat to anyone."

"My employers disagree. And so do yours, by the way. As long as Curry and Heyes are anywhere instead of jail, they encourage other criminals and threaten

public safety."

"Well, as a law-enforcement professional, I can tell you, I'm a lot more concerned with the crooks that are active today. There's enough of them to keep me and

the Bannerman organization pretty busy. As for Heyes and Curry, I don't much care if they're out of jail, so long as they're staying out of trouble. That way, the

public doesn't have to support them with room and board for 20 years. Everybody wins."

"How much winning have you done lately, Mr. Briscoe?"

"Well, I'm about even with poker. As far as blackjack. . . "

"No no, Mr. Briscoe," interrupted Morehouse. "That's not what I mean. I'm talking about you and your career. You've been an agent for, what, almost 20 years

now?"

"About." Exactly.

"Strictly an agent. Always an agent. Never had a promotion. Never been recognized by the Bannerman organization."

Harry placed both hands flat on the table. His voice was tense. "You that interested in my career?"

Morehouse leaned in closer to Harry. He spoke quietly. "Frankly, no sir, I'm not. Only as far as my superiors at the American, and some of your agency's clients,

we're interested in how your needs and ours fit so neatly together."

"I'm a Bannerman man. Always have been. That's the only thing that matters to me."

"Is it, Mr. Briscoe? Is it really? You're not interested in the type of things other men are interested in, like financial security? A chance for promotion? Recognition

from your peers and your superiors, maybe even the public? These are the important things for most men. Don't they interest you?"

Yeah, they did interest him. A lot. More so lately than ever before, since he saw younger men, less experienced men, get the investigations and the promotions he

wanted. He reached for a fresh cigar and lit it slowly. He needed a moment to think of something clever to say, but nothing came to mind. Not for the first time, he

wished he was as good with words as Hannibal Heyes. That man had a smart answer for everything.

Morehouse was waiting for Harry. Still thinking of Heyes, Harry recalled an annoying Heyesian habit he used when he was stalling for time. Answer every question

with another question.

"Why are you so interested in my career, Mr. Morehouse? I'm just one agent among many. Nothing special."

Morehouse shook his head. "You underestimate yourself, sir. There's something special about you."

Harry raised his eyebrows, but didn't speak. That was another Heyesian technique he'd observed. Let silence go on long enough, and the other person would feel

compelled to fill it. It was working to perfection with Morehouse.

"What's special about you, Mr. Briscoe, is the rapport you have with criminals. They seem to trust you."

"My rapport?" Morehouse was nodding vigorously. Harry said a silent "thank you" to Hannibal Heyes. The tactic was working.

"Especially in regards to your recent work in Colorado Springs, and with the Hadleyburg Affair. It's no secret now. You've know Hannibal Heyes. You know him

well enough to recruit him to help in a successful Bannerman operation. No one else has ever been able to do that."

"You think not?" Harry said.

"I know not. And so do other people. Powerful people. Mr. Briscoe, you're in a position to do good for the country, good for your employer, and good for

yourself."

"And how do I do that?"

"Mr. Briscoe, the Chicago American believes you have the power to bring Hannibal Heyes and Kid Curry to justice. If you do that, think of the reward! Twenty

thousand dollars!"

"You don't know the Bannerman organization very well, Mr. Morehouse. As an employee, that reward would go to the organization, not to me."

"Very true. But think of the acclaim! Think of the fame! Your name would go down in history, Mr. Briscoe."

Harry smiled tightly at the reporter. "You mention my rapport with the criminal underground, Morehouse. My career would be over. None of my informants would

ever trust me again. And fame is fleeting. It won't pay for a comfortable retirement, and believe you me, I'd have to retire."

"Mr. Briscoe, we can secure you a comfortable retirement. If you let me accompany you through your pursuit and capture of Heyes and Curry, the whole story will

appear under our joint byline. You won't get the reward, true. But you'll be paid for your first-hand account, enough so that the reward looks like a pittance. You

can do whatever you want with the rest of your life. You can do a lecture tour. You can write about your career as a Bannerman man – with my assistance, of

course. Or, you can take the money and retire wherever you'd like to go. You'll have everything that matters. Everything."

"Everything that matters," Harry repeated.

"Yes," Morehouse said. "Everything that matters."

"Uh huh," Harry said. He considered. Odd thoughts were coming to mind. The time when Heyes and Curry left him tied to that cactus. They'd come back and

released him, but he hadn't been sure that they would. Heyes helping him out by running that con at the casino. Heyes and Curry had done that because they

wanted to protect a family; a family that had captured both men and taken them to jail. How they waited for him while he went with that sheriff to deposit the

$30,000 they'd recovered. He could have been telling the sheriff, "I've got Heyes and Curry right here, and I want to collect the reward." He hadn't done it, and

they'd trusted him. They'd concealed his own ill-conceived attempts at larceny, even when he'd betrayed them. He brought his attention back to the present.

"Does the Agency know about this?"

Morehouse laughed. "No sir, they do not. All they'll know is, you successfully brought in Heyes and Curry. You can complete the job, resign, and then your story

will be published. Very simple. And very rewarding."

Harry sat back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach and gazing off into space. He didn't speak for a few minutes.

"My folks were Quakers, Morehouse. Did you know that?"

"No. No, I didn't."

"They didn't want me to join up during the war, but I did anyway." Harry was silent. Morehouse waited again, less patiently.

"My mother especially. She was a good woman."

"I'm sure she was."

"You were too young to fight, weren't you?" Harry asked.

"Yes, sir, I was."

"Lucky for you. And for your family."

"Yes, sir."

"My mother reminded me, when I left, she told me, always remember that the most important things in life were the foolish things. I didn't understand her then. All I

cared about was getting into the fighting. I wanted to be a soldier. You know what I mean?"

Morehouse shook his head.

"Well. I think I understand her now. Finally. I got to thank you, Morehouse. You helped me with that."

"I don't see how, Mr. Briscoe."

"Foolish things. Like loyalty to a friend. Faithfulness. Kindness. The foolish things that may never make you rich or famous, that're more valuable than money."

Morehouse was frowning.

"Didn't you ever go to church?" Harry asked.

"Of course I did! Do."

"Well, then, it's all obvious, isn't it?"

Morehouse shook his head. "Mr. Briscoe, you've lost me. I don't know what you're talking about."

For the first time, Harry smiled with real pleasure. Now that his decision was made, he felt pretty good. "I know you don't, son." He stood up. "Thanks for the

beer."

Morehouse stood, too. "But we haven't concluded our business, Mr. Briscoe."

"Yes, we have. So long, Morehouse. Don't take any wooden nickels." Harry stepped quickly away from the table.

"Mr. Briscoe!" Morehouse's loud voice sounded through the entire saloon. Harry turned back to look at him.

"Mr. Briscoe," Morehouse said, more calmly. "You are being very foolish."

"Sure am," Harry said. He walked through the batwing doors into the warm sunlight of the Denver evening, still smiling.


End file.
